


moon/sun

by threadoflife



Category: Professor Marston and the Wonder Women (2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Dom/sub, F/F, Femslash, Light BDSM, Non-Sexual Submission, Poetic Porn, Realisations, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 07:29:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15092030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threadoflife/pseuds/threadoflife
Summary: The moment she sees Olive in the burlesque outfit, Elizabeth finds something fundamental, profound within herself.





	moon/sun

**Author's Note:**

> I just had had had had HAD to write this.
> 
> I loved the scene in the movie but goddamnit I needed this. So here it is.

Elizabeth falls to her knees the moment she first sees Olive in the burlesque outfit with the rope in her kind, soft hands: because that vision speaks to something deep inside her that’s almost too animalistic for her rational mind to comprehend.

Her first impulse is to step closer; take the rope from her hands; prowl in a circle around her; and assess. The muscles in her arms and something deep behind her rib cage burn with the desire to do that. And she would. She would.

If there weren’t that proud tilt to Olive’s chin, raised high, so different from the bumbling girl she was, that first night in the pub, spilling over with apologies. There are no apologies here: the cloth fits her like a second skin, moulded to her, as she stands tall and upright. She’s a vision. A vision with her blonde hair, her strong body, tight hips and stocky arms and curved thighs. This is a woman, self-possessed; a woman, natural; a woman, who found herself.

Olive has always been more the moon out of the three of them. Shy and coquettish, sly with her glances and quiet in her desire. She hides in dresses with ruffles and bows, likes to play the caretaking nurse when they’re home alone. And she is that, too, of course: she is.

But woman is manifold: woman is one, and woman is all.

Like the moon, Olive is the sun. She glows, as she is, straight upright and tall and proud. This is her, too. Olive is the moon and the sun and all the planets and the galaxy. Olive is galaxy. Galaxy is woman.

The sensation ripples through Elizabeth’s body, through her blood, in a fierce, deep coil of heat, like a lash of rope from Olive’s hand. She gasps, quietly, and the feeling manifests in a spasm of her hands. She is too inside herself to step forward and say, take me, make me yours. I wish to be. She is too proud: her moon is yearning, but her sun blazes too fiercely. She’s always had to be the sun to survive. Her moon has had no place in this society, this age.

When Olive takes a step forward, just one single step, Elizabeth’s knees fold. They fold inwards: they fold into themselves, the animal instinct that surges through her body, incomprehensible to logic, forcing her to bend. It is a bow of her whole body, shoulders tight but rounding as she falls to her knees gracelessly, like a heavy sack that’s lost its balance. She is a bow towards Olive, always towards Olive. Her body, her mind, the deep recesses inside her that are unexplored. Towards Olive. Always…

“Shhh.” Olive’s voice is unreal, here in this hidden room apart from society. There are people around them, but they aren’t here. On her knees before Olive, Elizabeth is in another world. She’s terrified: she quivers with it. The muscles around her neck and shoulders are tight, square, and she dimly recognises this is a fight or flight scenario. She wants to turn tail and disappear. She can’t do this. She’s terrified. This isn’t who she is. This isn’t—

“Shhh,” Olive says again, and Elizabeth is relieved to perceive a tremor in Olive’s voice, too. She is terrified, too, then. She is the sun, but the fire burns too brightly for her. Maybe because she kept it low, kept it dry, all the time. “I’m here.”

Elizabeth’s head is bowed. Her hands come up to clutch, helplessly, stupidly, at Olive’s hips.

Olive smells the fear on her.

“I’m here,” she repeats, low and soothing. Her palm cups Elizabeth’s skull, directs it toward the soft swell of her tummy, against which Elizabeth presses her cheek and inhales. “I’m here and you’re safe.”

Olive smells the fear on her.

Worse: more thrillingly: she smells the _want_ on her.

Fuck. Fuck, Elizabeth is dripping with it.

“You’ll be fine,” Olive murmurs, carding a gentle hand through Elizabeth’s hair. Like that, she holds her, and Elizabeth breathes—breathes her scent, her closeness, her fire. She’s warm and alive. She’s safe. Elizabeth is safe here, before her. Elizabeth is safe like this, exposed, on her knees. Olive is safe.

The moment her shoulders slacken, the moment Elizabeth’s head gives in, neck softening—submitting—Olive is on her.

“Now,” Olive says, “I believe you have something I want.”

The cradling hand turns punishing: the soothing fingers turn into a fist. Moon and sun, loving and pain. Love and pain. Two things, inextricably linked. Elizabeth loves her. Elizabeth wants her pain.

Olive fists her hair, drags her head back in a yank. She smiles down at Olive, all sly and confident, eyes heated and dark. “Will you give it to me?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth gasps, her entire body willing: her lips open, slack, she is flushing. She is dripping, wet between her thighs. Her nipples are puffed and tight. “Yes.”

And she learns that submission, not compliance—that submission, whole-hearted, honest submission to a loving authority is the greatest gift she has ever had the pleasure of knowing.


End file.
